


like answering the sun

by ghostsongs



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsongs/pseuds/ghostsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><span class="small">set during season 2; written for <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_spn_30snapshots"><a href="http://spn-30snapshots.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://spn-30snapshots.livejournal.com/"><b>spn_30snapshots</b></a></span>’s theme 06, prompt: summer, <a href="http://maco2111.livejournal.com/4016.html">table</a>; dedicated to Jess, my irl friend who wouldn’t stop nagging me to finish this. ♥<br/>title from ‘staring at the sun’ by tv on the radio</span>
<br/><a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a></p>
    </blockquote>





	like answering the sun

**Author's Note:**

> set during season 2; written for [](http://spn-30snapshots.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_30snapshots**](http://spn-30snapshots.livejournal.com/) ’s theme 06, prompt: summer, [table](http://maco2111.livejournal.com/4016.html); dedicated to Jess, my irl friend who wouldn’t stop nagging me to finish this. ♥  
> title from ‘staring at the sun’ by tv on the radio   
> 

  


      
It’s so goddamn hot.

The sun glares overhead, a constant spotlight that threatens to burn them alive. It brands their bodies with heat-dark freckles and leaves them sticky-slick with sweat. The windows are down, music racing with the wind, a pounding rhythm beating against their skin. The weather’s got them going crazy, the temperature messing with their heads.

They’ve been in Georgia for the past couple of weeks, clearing out spirit infested backcountry roads and broken-down farmhouses. Simple salt-and-burns, jobs they could do in their sleep, and it’s effortless and mechanical, almost _boring_. It’s like nothing they’ve done before, settling into a comfortable rhythm, the open road and the endless sky before them.

It hasn’t been this easy in a while.

So here they are now, cruising down the not-so-scenic I-75 on their way to the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge. Bobby said something about an Indian legend; beautiful women with blazing eyes that drown unsuspecting men in the swamp. People are dying and it’s their job to fix it.

Dean thinks that maybe they should just let them die, those _fucking idiots_ , because really, what kind of dumbass follows some random chick deep into a fucking swamp? Sam just rolls his eyes, _whatever Dean_ , and goes back to his book, by Jack Kerouac or someone like him, someone Dean’s never gotten around to reading, too busy looking after Sam or Dad to actually pick up a book.

Dean’s got his hands clenched on the wheel, all hot leather and worn comfort. He fights the urge to stare at Sam, sprawled across the passenger seat, long limbs lazy-warm and splayed tantalizingly close to him. He keeps his eyes forward, ignores his little brother as he lays an arm across the back of Dean’s seat. Fingers brush against the back of his neck and slide through the too-short hairs. He shivers, his body reflexively turning in on itself, as Sam smirks. Dean sometimes hates ( _not really_ ) how easily Sam can affect him.

Sam looks over at him, smile devastatingly bright, careless and devoid of shadows. ( _it’s been a while since Dean’s seen him like this, childlike and untroubled; reminds him of earlier days, when his universe consisted only of Dad and Sammy and the Impala, three unsung American heroes out saving the world, a fading memory of youthful innocence._ ) He’s shining like the world outside, wildly reckless and blindingly carefree. It hurts to look at Sam like that, and Dean finds himself caught between guilty agony and white-hot pleasure, ecstatic at seeing Sam so fucking happy for once but god, he’s got his heart tight in his fist with how sick the rising and unwanted ( _yeah right, he wants them more than anything; can’t lie to himself anymore_ ) feelings have him. And yeah, Dean’s tired of feeling like this.

He grins back at his little brother, a little bittersweet smile that he hopes Sam won’t read into, uncover the implications and memories behind it, won’t realize how much Dean wants to regret those quick betrayals and moments of gun-shy weakness.

But Sam’s oblivious and it’s in moments like these when Dean remembers that naïve, little boy who blew spit-bubbles at him from the back seat, with those adoring eyes and an impish smile that knew nothing about ghosts and blood. That same baby brother is looking back at Dean, quietly happy, sun-kissed and all kinds of beautiful.

Sam leans over the divide and presses a soft kiss behind Dean’s ear. A smile tugs at the corner of Dean’s mouth, _I know you can’t keep your hands off me, Sammy, but if you wanna get there in one piece, you better not distract me_. Sam snorts and Dean shakes his head, starts looking for excuses to pull over and put his hands on Sam, yank him close and nip at the corner of that honeyed smile.

The miles race on and Dean’s practically trembling with want. Sam keeps running a teasing finger down the outside seam of Dean’s jeans, every now and then saying, _you’re going over the yellow line, Dean_ , and, _keep your eyes on road_ , and, _I’m never getting in the Impala with you again_ , each comment punctuated with a Cheshire-cat grin. Dean’s restraint is wearing thin, at the breaking point, and he’s about to yell at Sam for being such a _goddamn cocktease_ , when Sam stops touching him. Wordlessly, he picks his book up from his lap and goes back to reading it.

Dean’s never slammed the brakes so hard.

He shoves the Impala’s door open, barely wincing as he hears it emit a groan, and stalks over to the passenger side, fluidly pulling Sam out the car. Sam’s got that look of dumb innocence on his face and it only makes Dean want to bite it away. He barely starts with _now listen up, you teasing motherfucker_ , before Sam is crowding into Dean’s space, pushing his back against the fire-hot metal of the Impala, one hand clenched in soft fabric of Dean’s shirt, the other cupped around the back of his neck.

They stand like that for a moment, frozen in the glare of the sun against the pavement, Sam searching for some inconceivable truth in Dean’s eyes, and something like boiling oil is pooling in Dean’s belly. And there it is, the euphoric smile that somehow manages to leave Dean breathing erratically every time he sees it. He returns the smile and that’s when Sam kisses him, slow and sweet, nothing like the frantic kisses of the night before. He tastes like the Twizzlers he got at the gas station, salty sweat, and sunlight, a combination that has Dean pulling Sam closer, angling his head to kiss him deeper.

There’s about a hundred and fifty miles to go, ten county lines to cross, and Sam should be bitching about getting to a motel before dark. Instead, Dean is brushing Sam’s damp bangs out of the way and resting his forehead against Sam’s, feeling the combined warmth of their shallow breaths. They really should get going.

But the heat’s got them dazed and carefree, young again. It’s got them in its grip and Dean stops trying to fight it.  



End file.
